Please, Fred
by Anrheithwyr
Summary: George Weasley just lost his twin brother in a car accident. He finds himself at a local pub. Four hours later, Angelina Johnson finds him passed out in the bar. Remembering George from her high school days, she takes him to her flat because she can't just leave him there. When George wakes up, he can't say he's unhappy with recent developments. MuggleAU.


_**Written for the 'Muggleize It Competition' by Ryah Ignis, with my Muggleized situation being: "George Weasley just lost his twin brother in a car accident. He finds himself at a local pub. Four hours later, Angelina Johnson finds him passed out in the bar. Remembering George from her high school days, she takes him to her flat because she can't just leave him there. When George wakes up, he can't say he's unhappy with recent developments."**_

_**Written for the 'If You Dare Challenge' by Slytherin Cat, using prompt # 218, careful is my middle name. **_

_**Written for the 'Ten times Ten Challenge' by Utlaga, using colour: purple. **_

_**For the record, in case you haven't figured it out: THIS IS AN AU. SOME EVENTS REMAIN THE SAME, BUT SOME HAVE BEEN CHANGED. THIS IS ALSO NOT A ROMANTIC STORY-IT CONTAINS DEATH AND CURSING AND OTHER EVENTS, AND IF YOU ARE NOT OKAY WITH THAT, PLEASE DO NOT READ IT. **_

….

George laughed as he sped up the car, feeling the wind blowing through his messy, red hair. Beside him, his twin brother, Fred, took another swig of beer, chuckling and throwing his hands up in the air. Their hearts were racing as they sped down the road, neither caring about speed limits, not when they were surrounded by empty fields and shambling cows. After all, hardly anyone ever seemed to be on these back country lanes, and the twins were twenty years old-reckless and adventurous. George could feel the blood pounding in his head as he drove quickly past cows that stared dumbly after the old, purple Ford Angela. It was their dad's car, taken out for a brief, secret spin into town for a few drinks. Dad would probably be mad when they got back home, but for now, the car was moving fast, and they were free from the thought of consequences. George felt a wide grin on his face as he turned to laugh at his twin, who looked back with the same expression of wildness. Twenty years old now, and drunk enough not to care what would happen when they got home.

"Can't this damn thing go any faster?" Fred asked, pointing his half-empty bottle at George's hand, blinking slowly eyes at the speedometre, his words slurred and his hands shaking. They were going at least a hundred km already, though to Fred's drunken mind, it wasn't nearly fast enough. "Why haven't we ever bothered to get a new car, one with speed and a good mileage? Dad's car is crap, and it's over thirty-always breaking down, this one. Why are we driving this piece of trash?" Even as he glared at the ancient car, Fred couldn't help but pat it with vague affection. After all, the Anglia was older than they were, and there had been plenty of good memories built in this car-memories of pranks planned and pulled in the back seat. There was a certain amount of respect necessary for such an important piece of family history, even if the car did break down regularly, and couldn't go nearly as fast as their brother Bill's car, a Vauxhall Astra from 1989, but the Anglia had a past-a tugging connection to the whole family-, and the twins loved the old thing, even though they always complained and ragged on it.

"George, look out!" Fred screamed suddenly, and he looked up to see a large, green lorry coming at them from the opposite direction. "George, we're in the wrong lane! Move over, move over, you're on the wrong side!" Fred was screaming loudly, and George frowned, his head still spinning from the alcohol. What was going on? The lorry seemed to be getting faster and closer, but he still wasn't doing anything, the Anglia moving along at a decent pace, while Fred screamed for him to move to the left lane. Was he in the wrong lane-it didn't feel like it. "George, George, think, dammit! Dammit, George, move!" George watched the lorry move ever closer, and suddenly, something seemed to kick in, and he spun the steering wheel to the left. However, the car didn't move fast enough to get out of the lorry's way, as it slammed into their tiny Anglia, sending it spinning for a good thirty feet. The two young men began panicking, George desperately trying to get the car under control. The back end of the Anglia spun around, running into the lorry again before finally running off the road.

George screamed, loudly so, turning the wheel sharply to the left. He heard Fred yelling in his ear, but the alcohol in George's system was still churning, confusing him. Where was he going? How had he ended up in a cow field, and why was he still moving? Fred was yelling about some car that had been coming at them, but all George could do was cling to the steering wheel and try not to puke. Cows flew by their car, no doubt startled even more than George as he continued on, his feet numb as they stayed _far _away from the pedal he was so desperately searching for-the brakes. He looked up from the floorboards as Fred yelled again, just in time to see a large oak coming at them, and he didn't have time to move out of the way. George instinctively closed his eyes, preparing for the worst.

He could feel himself tumbling around, being flung back and forth, and his seatbelt cutting into the skin on his neck. The next thing he knew, his head was flying through the glass frame of the front window, and he could feel blood on his face as he groaned. The car, he thought, must have stopped by now, though he wasn't sure where, or in what condition. A random thought popped into his head-_careful is my middle name-_and then he was flung partially from the car, his seatbelt wrapped around him tightly, groaning, his body feeling deflated and limp, but still functioning. The blood on his head was pouring now, and he put a shaking hand to his forehead, feeling a shallow-hopefully-gash about two inches long. George tried to refrain from throwing up, sending a fleeting 'thank you' to whoever it was watching over him today._ It could have been worse_, he thought to himself. _You could have died. _His head was burning up, but otherwise, he felt fine. He was alive, after all, wasn't he? George let out a little chuckle, which petered off quickly and awkwardly-why was this amusing to him? He didn't know, but it felt good to laugh. 

He turned then to smile at Fred, wanting to celebrate their survival, but noticed the passenger door was ajar, and there was blood on the seats. The seatbelt had been torn off, ripped from its holster, and the front window and passenger's window were both smashed, covered in blood. George was all alone in the car, and he was almost terrified to get out, nauseated by all the blood. There was so much of it, and he wasn't sure how much one could lose before it was too late. _Don't think about that. Of course Fred is alive, he's Fred. _George scolded himself mentally, unbuckling from his seat and clambering from the car, trying to ignore the shattered glass and the huge dents in the fenders. _Dad's going to murder us when we get back. _His head was pounding from the alcohol and from the wreck as he moved through the wreckage.

He walked to the other side of the car, where Fred's door hangs awkwardly open, and a trail of blood leads to a few feet away, under a tree. He rushed over to where the pale, shaking body of his brother lay, begging and praying that his brother wasn't dead. _He can't be dead, he's my twin, my twin brother. He's my other half, he's not dead. _George hurried to Fred, dropping on his knees as he searched desperately for a heartbeat. It was a murmur, faint, but just enough that George choked out a happy sob, hugging his brother tightly. He didn't care that the two of them were covered in blood, or that the car was wrecked. _Fred was alive_, and soon they'd be able to get back home and forget about all of this. He sobbed happily, clinging to his brother, feeling the dim heartbeat that kept his brother alive.

"Georgie?" said a hoarse, shaky voice, and George looked down at Fred, whose blue eyes were mirroring his own. George let out a shaky laugh, squeezing his brother's hand. "Georgie, is that you? It's nice to see you again, you prick." Fred looked past George, towards the Anglia, which was smoking, wrapped around a tree trunk, dented and gashed. "You've wrecked Dad's car," Fred chuckled weakly, smirking at George. "He's gonna lock you up for the next twenty years. They'll never let you out again." He laughed, but was cut off by hoarse coughing.

"You're going to be fine, Fred." George told him softly. "I'm sure that guy in the lorry will call the cops or an ambulance, and then you'll be fine. We can go to the hospital, get you all patched up." Fred was alive, talking to him, making jokes. This was more than George could have hoped for, staring down at this pale face that was an exact copy of his own. When George had been scrambling from the car, a part of him had already been mentally preparing for the possibility that Fred hadn't…._made it. _George wasn't sure exactly what he might have done without his brother, but there was no need to worry about that now. Fred was fine. He had to be, for George's sake. He had to survive. There was no way George was going to bury his twin brother-there was no way he'd ever be able to survive without Fred. George just couldn't imagine a world without his twin, couldn't imagine a world without his other half, his copy. Fred couldn't die, he couldn't leave George all alone and broken.

Fred let out another hoarse cough, shaking his head weakly. "George look at me, I'm covered in my own blood. Feel my pulse, it's weakening even as we speak." George shook his head frantically, not wanting to admit what was happening right in front of him. Fred was going to survive, he _was. _There was no way the universe was cruel enough to take away his twin brother, his other half. "George, think rationally. You're lucky, aren't you? Lucky we're not both dead, lucky we get to spend my last minutes together. Don't…." he coughed again, blood on his hands and all over him. "Don't make this any harder than it has to be, Georgie. You know they won't get here in time, and so do I." He gave George a weak smile, the light in his eyes dimming. "But that's fine. At least we're here together in the end. Just you and I, happy, and you'll be okay, Georgie."

"Fred," George choked out, not wanting to let go of his brother, not ever again. "Fred, please just hold out until they get here. Please don't leave me here alone. Don't leave me here without you, Fred. I need you, please. Please, Freddie, I need you to be here with me. You promised me we'd always be together, Fred and George, the trouble-making twins." Fred was smiling still, but his heartbeat was fading quickly, and George began to cry, heaving sobs bursting out of his mouth, strangled inhuman noises. "Please, please don't leave me. Please don't leave me, Freddie." He clung to his brother, begging him to stay alive, even as Fred's eyes closed for the last time. The two of them stayed that way for hours, until someone came crashing through the wreckage, finding the sobbing redhead clutching his brother's cooling body, murmuring the same words over and over.

"Please don't leave me, Freddie. Please don't leave me here, all alone." He was sobbing, dirty and bleeding, but George didn't care at all, too busy trying to hold onto a boy who was never going to respond ever again. Fred's eyes were wide open, but glassy and empty-George closed them with shaking hands, holding tight to his brother's body as he continued whispering to himself, "Please don't leave me, please don't leave me, don't leave me." He wasn't sure it would ever quite kick in that his brother was dead, that he wasn't coming back, because in that moment, it hurt too much to ever admit he was so alone-that he would be so alone for the rest of his life.

….

George couldn't help but hold back a gasping, rattling breath as he walked into the pub, his hair sticking up wildly as he collapsed at a booth in the back, not even noticing the sticky upholstery, or the bugs that skittered underfoot. It was weird, coming back into Ollie's after all that had happened in the past two weeks; he hadn't stepped foot in town since _everything_, and now he was back in the same pub that had led up to entire situation. If George had been in the mood, he might have been amused by the irony in the situation, but he could only glumly sit in his seat, watching sullenly as blue collar works filed past him, filling up benches and chairs, chatting loudly. He saw a one of the men turn and give him a wary glance, no doubt thrown off by the haggard look in his eyes, or the hole in George's head where an ear used to be. (He'd lost it last July, when he and his brothers were attacked. It had been cut off, and even now, he still struggled to recall the gaping hole.)

He could still remember coming home that morning, May 2nd, to find his little brother Ron sitting at the kitchen table. Mum had called him and Fred up in a panic, saying she had great news because Ron had been gone since August of last year, hiding from a crazy gang that wanted to kill Ron's friends. He could still remember with clarity how Fred had wanted to go into town and chat up some pretty girls-Mum hadn't liked the idea of them running off just after she'd gotten her youngest son back, but the twins had promised they'd be back before dark. They hadn't meant to end up at Ollie's, the only decent pub in town, but Fred had suggested maybe a drink or two would make it easier to deal with Mum when they got back. George hadn't meant to get drunk. He hadn't meant to drive home with a bleary mind, nor had he meant to crash the car. But he had, and now Fred was gone.

_Mum began to sob earnestly as they lowered the coffin into the ground. It was a simple affair, just the family and a few friends, all gathered around the grave as the minister spoke gravely about lives ended too quickly, and saying stuff about how Fred was in a better, happier place now, away from all the troubles of this mortal earth. Behind him, he could see Ron's friends-Harry and Hermione-holding up the young Weasley boy, who seemed to have crumpled where he stood. A few feet away, George's sister, Ginny, cried silently into her brother Charlie's shoulder, who only stood there stoically. He hadn't said a word since George had come home from the hospital without his brother. In fact, neither had George, who was merely a frozen, empty shell of a person now. He was broken, drowning without help. His dad stood a few feet from the coffin, holding his eldest son, Bill's hand, crying just like everyone else. The only one who was missing was Perfect Percy, who had never liked his family. Perfect Percy, who had pretended to be too busy to come to his own brother's funeral. Perfect Percy, who was still a better person than George could ever be._

George turned away from the men's' staring glances, facing the wall with tears stinging sharply in his eyes. He didn't want to be reminded that he wasn't right anymore, that he was a broken toy that had been abandoned by its owner. He wasn't whole anymore, he was missing a whole half of himself. George was alone, just him in the pub with a half-drunken bottle of cheap beer, and horrible memories spinning in his head. But, then again, didn't he deserve to have those judging eyes on him, evaluating his every move? He had killed another person, he had killed his brother. Everyone else seemed to be trying to tell him all the time that it wasn't his fault-that it was an accident, but he knew who was to blame, and it wasn't entirely the alcohol's fault, or the lorry driver's fault. No, George had driven drunk, knowing it was wrong. George had crashed the car, sending it tumbling through a cow pasture and down a hill. George had killed his brother, and George had caused himself to be all alone. George sighed, taking another chug of beer, determined to keep drinking until there was no pain left inside of him.

He wasn't sure how much longer this would last, the daily battle of waking up without….without _him_, his brother, his other half. He'd made it two weeks so far, but each morning was a struggle, as if he was being forced to lift some great weight off his chest just so he could function normally. The others hovered around him like flies, but they never quite said anything _to _him, afraid he might blow up or strike out, or whatever it was that some people did when they were sad. George, however, just sat and moped around, wordlessly mumbling, desperate for a drink, for a cure that would take him _away_ from this world without Fred. He drank to forget, drank to numb the pain because Fred was gone, and what the fuck was there left to do-he couldn't force a smile onto his face, he couldn't pretend he was fine. _Down the hatch goes my drink, and fuck the whole world. _Shots and shots, one right after the other, a number of cheap beer that started out tasting like cat piss, but as the night went on, advanced to something close to an actual beer. He laughed with the other men, tottering around drunkenly for a few hours before crashing to the floor, snoring. _Just a few drinks to forget the whole damn world. Straight to hell I go, straight to hell with my whiskey, like I care. Fucking hell, just get me out of here. _

….

When he woke up the next morning, it was to a spinning head and a groggy mind, in unfamiliar clothes. In fact, the entire room he was in looked completely new, with bright yellow walls covered in various footie posters, promoting Buckfastleigh Rangers and Millwall Lionesses. He was laying on a soft, tan couch, staring up at the blank white ceiling, wondering how much he'd had to drink last night if it meant someone had to drag his arse to their place. His head was reeling as he sat up, and the room spun around him as he tried to slide off of the couch on shaking legs, blinking as the bright ceiling lights hurt his eyes. He was in someone's bedroom, a tiny thing that fit only the bed, a dresser, and the cheap couch he'd been laying on. It was completely unfamiliar to him and a part of George was panicking about his mysterious circumstances-_I don't know where I am, what if I've been kidnapped, what's Mum gonna say? _The rest of him, however, only breathed quietly and took a step, feet brushing against soft carpet.

George groaned quietly, feeling the stiffness in his legs, and he hobbled across the tiny room, opening the bedroom door, and stepping into a brightly lit hallway, which had a few colourful photographs of a young man standing next a bike, and a drawing of the beach, blue waves appearing to slap up against a sandy beach. Still nothing that brought back any memories of his surroundings, only raising more-who was the man in the picture? Where the fuck was he, and what had happened last night, exactly, at Ollie's? He'd gotten drunk before-Friday night was often bar-hopping night with Fre…..with _him_, and there had been plenty of skipped Sunday school lessons after a particularly raging party the night before. However, he'd never woken up in a completely strange place with no recollection of how he'd gotten there.

George padded through the hallway, wondering vaguely where his socks were as he stared at the decorated walls with pictures of the beach and trees and what appeared to be an entire cast of various people at a variety of ages, in different positions-grinning, waving, scowling, laughing. He could place a few of them in the back of his head, a name or two, though he wasn't quite sure where he might have met any of them. School, maybe, though he and his brother had never finished their A levels, too busy working on their bigger and better plans. _You'll have to run the shop yourself now. _Oh, god, the joke shop he'd opened with his brother-the flat above it-he'd have to take care of all it, all by himself. _Oh god, oh god._ George took a deep breath as he found his way to the kitchen, his head still spinning from last night. There was someone sitting in the tiny kitchen, and George froze.

He vaguely recognised the girl who sat at the kitchen table, recognised the warm features of high, dark eyebrows and curious blue eyes that contrasted her mocha skin. She was lean, tall, and clearly worked out on a semi-regular basis, at least. Like the people in the photos, he could tell he had met her before, but George could not quite place her-a name popped into his head _Angelina_ and he wondered if they had ever been friends. _If she was always this pretty, I can't see why not._ George isn't sure where that thought came from, and he stuffed it down deeper, blushing. She wasn't looking at him, focusing on the newspaper in her hands, but he must have made some sort of noise as he padded in, because she looked up at him briefly, before smiling and folding up the paper in her hands, moving from the table to greet him. She walked over to the counter, tipping out a few long pills from a bottle, offering them to him with a glass of orange juice, smiling politely at him. George gave her a tense smile back, taking the aspirin from her, his head still pounding.

"I'm Angelina Johnson," she said in a friendly, warm tone, and George nodded back at her, still clueless about whether or not they _had _ever known her, or if she just looked like one of his old girlfriends. It was always possible, though George had never really dated many athletic girls, like this one. "And you're Weasley-George, I believe." He winced, but she didn't seem to notice. "We used to go to school together, you know, secondary school? You were on the team at one point, you and your brother, and I think we had a few classes together. You might not remember me, though. I mostly hung out with Katie and Alicia." She smiled again, and George nodded, suddenly remembering the girl who ran so quickly across the field, giggling as she scored a goal for their team. "Anyway, this is my boyfriend's flat; I saw you last night at the bar when I was looking for Greg, and I remembered you. I figured it wouldn't be fair, leaving you all alone, passed out on the floor, so I brought you home with me. Greg wasn't too happy-he had to carry you over-but he's not here right now to punch you, so you're fine."

George turned away, glass in hand, and he scrunched up his face, trying to keep from blushing-he wasn't sure why he was even blushing, but Angelina was pretty and she had brought him all the way back to her place, when she should have just left him there, because he was damaged goods, and wouldn't have even made a decent friend, and he wanted to be _so much more than a friend! _Where had that thought come from so suddenly, the desire to kiss this girl who was practically a stranger to him, this girl who had a boyfriend who could carry him all the way through town? _Your brother is dead, and you've suddenly gone and fallen in love with this girl? What the hell is wrong with you, George Weasley? _He didn't know, and his head was pounding, and George wanted to puke, but he also wanted to cry, but he also wanted to kiss Angelina-it was the alcohol's fault, it was his depression's fault. He was fucking sick-_what the fuck is wrong with you_? _Blame it on the alcohol, my dear. _George brushed away sudden tears, feeling like an idiot.

"Are you okay?" Angelina asked, moving to touch him, to comfort him, and he could only shake his head, feeling like the world's biggest moron, even though part of him wanted to kiss Angelina and make love to her right there on the kitchen table. _You smell like cheap alcohol and vomit, you dumbass. She's got a boyfriend, you idiot. Your brother's dead, what are you doing falling in love? What the fuck is wrong with you? _And he's not sure-he'll never be sure, though there will be days where he blames it on the alcohol, or the fact that Fred was dead, or the fact that Angelina was just _very _pretty-but George couldn't help but lean in closer and kiss her on the mouth, soft flesh pushing against her lips and he almost smiled as they kissed, happier than he'd been in two weeks, kissing this girl who was practically a stranger. She shoved him away, demanding to know _"What the fuck is wrong with you? Asshole, what's your problem? You get off on kissing girls who are taken?" _but he can't find it in himself to wipe the dumb smile off his face as she yelled at him, throwing his belongings at George, shoving him towards the door. This was the happiest he's been since his brother died, even though Angelina will probably never speak to him, a lucky coincidence that Angelina had found him and decided to bring him back to her place. _Fred is dead, Fred is dead-_the words pounded through his head as Angelina slammed the door in face, but even as the tears sprung up again, he smiled to himself, a little bit happier.


End file.
